


Protest Song

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Miami Vice (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Drugs, F/M, Pre-Canon, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006, recipient:brooklinegirl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He and Rico talk all the time, about everything. Sonny never worries about saying too much; he just tries not to worry about the day that Rico won't be there to listen anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protest Song

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who listened to me freak out, especially Ethros and Min. The protest song Sonny's army buddy sings is "Sky Pilot" by Eric Burdon and The Animals.

Sometimes Sonny thinks he's back _over there_ \-- stuck somewhere in the jungle, the air dry in his lungs and wet on his skin. He remembers laughter, harsh barks of sound that echoed across the clearing like gunshot. They'd talk about fighting and fucking, the sergeant telling him to focus on the former, as the latter's just a distraction, _"makes you sloppy."_ There was this corporal -- built like a fireplug -- he used to sing protest songs at the top of his lungs ( _"He smiles at the young soldiers, tells them it's all riiiiiight."_ ) and ask questions you never really wanted to answer ( _"How you enjoying your American Dream, Sonny-my-boy?"_ ). He talked about fucking a lot, about breasts that could you couldn't hold with two sets of hands, but he could lay out a man twice his size if you looked at him sideways. Sonny can't remember his real name without looking it up, which makes him mad -- I mean, he owes the guy at least that. This is the same guy that pulled him out of the swamp one-handed, his M16 spraying fire with the other, and he can't remember his name, just remembers his voice, sing-songing, _"Keep going, almost there, Sonny-boy, you can do it, you can make--"_

It's usually around then where his memory goes all white and he ends up burning his fingertips with a forgotten cigarette. This time, Rico turns up to snap him out of it -- Sonny's lucky like that. They hustle outside, elbows bumping, and it's time to get rolling. Rico lets slip that he's _"got a score, my man, big time, you ready?"_

The Ferrari hugs them close and the streets of Miami open up, Sonny's very own American Dream.

At the next red light, Sonny palms a smoke and lets it sit between his lips unlit, tongue pressed against the filter. The light goes green and he floors it, shakes a laugh out of Rico, and they both smile into the night.

*

Sonny doesn't talk about Vietnam. Caroline asked once, and he slept on the couch for a week.

He hopes that when Billy asks him, he'll be ready. Hopes he'll be able to say, _"A man is more than a sum of the things he did."_ Hopes he'll be able to call it more than "over there."

*

Sonny has no idea why he does what he does, even though everyone seems to think he's got some master plan. He doesn't. He just _does._

The first time Sonny shows up on Gina's doorstep he's buzzing from a deal gone good, high-grade flake bright on his tongue. It's the middle of the night and he thinks she might have been sleeping, but she's been at this longer than him. She takes one look at him and pulls him inside. The living room is dark, and her couch is covered in newspapers that crinkle under his palms.

"You being safe?" he asks her as their clothes shift, the question still new and awkward.

"Course I am." She angles her hips, her fingertips pressing against his neck. Her teeth cut into his bottom lip. "Are you?"

He doesn't stay the night, not then, not ever. He tells her it's because he's got to get back, feed Elvis, get some shut-eye for a meet tomorrow.

It's not a lie, usually, even if it's not the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth.

*

Sonny doesn't talk to Gina about much of anything. It's easier that way.

*

There's this one time Rico tries to tell Sonny something really important, but Sonny doesn't listen -- his dick's winning and mind's losing. Brenda tells him to come to bed, so he does.

Then Rico shows up, on his feet, but barely, and Sonny does what needs to be done. Miami is his lady, and he's been cheating. That weekend they blow a few c-notes on a bottle of Dom, the white teeth of a Columbian drug lord reflecting the lights of the dance floor from across the bar.

Rico doesn't talk, doesn't have to, just ropes in two lovelies for a few rounds of dancing. Sonny remembers the smell of the woman's perfume, but couldn't remember her name if you paid him.

"You think I remember her name? I barely remember my own name. Don't even ask me about your name, my man," Rico tells him later. Sonny stretches out on the sand as the girls yank their dresses up and off, Rico shifting sand as he crouches down.

There's laughter, shrieks of it from the surf. The moon peaks out over the water, silver light cresting over Rico's shoulder. The girls wave at them, their hair wet ropes against their bare breasts. A wave breaks against their hips, scraps of underwear hiding nothing.

"Now, this? This is the American Dream, my man." Rico finally sits down, his shoulder pressed up against Sonny's as they sit side by side and watch the moon fade.

*

They talk in the car, hushed whispers undercut by giggles from the backseat. Sonny lets Rico have both girls that night, sits in an armchair with his feet propped up on the edge of the bed, a scotch on the rocks in one hand and an early edition of the _Herald_ in the other. The sheets twist and catch on his ankles every once and a while, and he shifts, smiles.

*

He and Rico talk all the time, about everything. Sonny never worries about saying too much; he just tries not to worry about the day that Rico won't be there to listen anymore.

*

Sonny's bones creak when he gets up in the morning, but not for long. The sun shines high and bright this far south, and the air smells like summer year-round. He bought a boat with the money he socked away after Caitlin died -- he's pretty sure the bills were clean, but there's huge swatches of time he's not quite sure about. Its possible people died over the American green that bought this battered hull, but Sonny doesn't think about that too much. He spends most days pretending he's fishing and most nights pretending he doesn't speak Spanish. The tiny village knows who he is, what he used to be. They don't say anything when he sits at the bar with his pistol strapped under his arm.

On Tuesdays he gets gas down at the pier. The old man at the pump whistles show tunes and grins when Sonny sings along, a broken harmony that's cut off by the growl of an engine. A truck bumps over the curb, rolls to a stop, flip-flops hitting the pavement as seagulls squawk.

"Man, this is the life," Rico says, cheap sunglasses pushed up on his head. "Someplace a man can get a drink around here? _Un poco_ tequila, maybe? Some ladies, a little conversation?"

Sonny finds himself smiling, laughing even. He thinks he should feel more surprised. "I can help you with the drinking and conversing -- ladies, you'll have to ask ol' Pedro here. He's quite the ladies man." Sonny cocks his thumb at the gasman, who's waving his hands already busy with his wife yelling from three boats down to _prisa parra arriba!_ The old man blows kisses to his wife, pleasing her with nice words.

"The ladies can wait," Rico says, his eyes on Sonny. "You ready?"

*

Sometimes Sonny thinks he's back in Miami, hazy days where the water is dirty blue and the sun scorches. He remembers gunshots and red blood staining white shoes, but doesn't remember his name. The memory of cocaine makes his mouth water, so he rolls a cigarette with shaky hands. Rico starts humming, the melodies a mix and match of old and new, songs Sonny's sure he knows, if only he just heard the words.

"This place is a dream, my man. "Rico takes the cigarette from Sonny's hand, takes a drag, hands it back. "Makes me not want to go back to the big, bad Bronx."

Sonny pinches the cigarette between his fingers, squints into the sunlight. "You ever consider not going back?"

"Maybe." Rico's smile is a mirror of the one Sonny feels stretching across his own face. "Maybe."


End file.
